


Off-Key Blues

by JellyfishPublishing



Category: Classicaloid (Anime)
Genre: Also Bada or Bara as I call her is the best friend we all deserve, Depression, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Make you uncomfortable or trigger you please skip this, Mitsuru is here for a minute, Neither is outright stated but it's heavily depicted, Readers I mean it if such discussions of someone struggling with gender dysphoria, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 13:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellyfishPublishing/pseuds/JellyfishPublishing
Summary: You are Pytor Ilyich Tchaikovsky.But what does that even mean anymore?





	Off-Key Blues

**Author's Note:**

> A.N Warning: The topic of Gender dysphoria or the feeling of your body “not feeling right” is the main focus of this story. If this is a hard topic to deal with for you or troubles you, please either proceed with caution or skip this one.
> 
> I know I mentioned this in the tags but the last thing I want to do is make anyone feel uncomfortable or worse. This story also depicts certain symptoms of depression that may also trigger. 
> 
> Overall, I hope this story does leave you in a better place and that you can enjoy any aspect of the writing. Thank you for your time.

You are Pytor Tchaikovsky and nothing feels quite right.

 

You remember your life as a man with love and marriage, and neither has to do with the other. You remember mushrooms and ballet and friends with their jokes whispered to you and their hot breath in your ears. You remember how the cold feels when it surrounds you, bites into you, and how even through bitter winters, there were days you felt too numb to feel the cold.

 

This new life is filled with things that the old one had but none of it fits in the same places. There’s life and love, mushrooms and ballet, and friends and cold winters, but none of it feels right. The things that do feel right are all the things that are different from before. Now, there’s dance practice, reprimands for when you slip into Russian in the recording booth and you have to start all over again, a never ending onslaught of outfits with frills, leggings, and uncomfortable shoes, and you are so much shorter than you used to be. This last one is a particular nuisance in more ways than one.

 

There are other things that are new and they feel wrong. “She” feels wrong. “He” doesn’t work either. You’re not sure how you feel when you don’t use either pronoun, but it’s a start at least. You use both of them, all of them, anyway, at whatever times convenient for you, because to get by in this new life you have to push through and do what needs to be done. It doesn’t stop how wrong it feels. It doesn’t stop how strange it is to stand in front of a mirror, the rosy reflection of golden curls, a sweet heart-shape face, and bluebell eyes staring back at you. You stare at it till you have to go, till your urged away, but you continue to look like a puzzle piece that fits in all but one side. Your old life flits to the front of your mind but you also know that this life is all you truly understand, from top to bottom, this life is really all you know. So it hurts more that nothing fits quite right.

 

Yet it seems your love life is the only thing that both lives seem to mirror near perfectly.

 

You don’t know why you love Bach. Bach, who like you, looks nothing like he used to. You think, so secretly that not even Bądarzewska knows, that perhaps that was for the best. While you can’t say for certain if _you_ look better, _he_ certainly does. He’s cool and stoic and handsome. There is a low timbre to his voice that rattles in your chest and leaves you trembling. You used to let yourself listen to his terse words as you pulled them from him, letting them echo within your mind the entire day till you were drunk on the way his lips curled Italian on his tongue. You remembered the words, you remembered their meaning, so it only seemed right that you had to find the meaning in his words. It seemed like something special, something just between the two of you. It made you happy.

 

Then he started speaking, then he started talking and Kanae is the first to hear him truly talk and you like her, you really do, she’s a nice girl, but you hated her for that brief and terrible moment. You hated her and hated Bach and hated the way his full sentences made you shiver and hated the way you were desperate for more. You hated this body that shivered at Bach’s words and hated it in general and hated your old memories and hated the way you never felt right and hated it, hated it, hated it, hated it, _hated it–!_

Things are better now but you still have those days. Those days when those unsettled feelings turn to hate and they burn you up, under your skin and deep in your bones until you feel like slamming doors and throwing things and _screaming_. You burn and burn until there’s just ash left and then you feel _nothing_.

 

Today feels like a nothing day.

 

Today you woke up, sat up in bed and looked over at Bądarzewska still sleeping. On other days, sometimes, you would get up and start cleaning your face so you could stare in the mirror. You would pull back your hair or imagine yourself really bald. You would think of growing facial hair and rub at your chin as though you could almost feel tiny hairs on their way. Today, you sit up and you don’t do any of that. You just sit there and reach to hold Bara’s hand, because it’s there, because even in sleep she holds your fingers tight, and because you need this right now.

 

Bądarzewska wakes up a little after you, from the alarm, and as she blinks up at you, her face sets into a serious expression. You look at her and you don’t really feel her hands on your cheek or the glass of cool water she gives you. You answer all her questions but you can’t find your usual energy, your usual _anything_ , but you lean into her hug because you need that, all of this, right now.

 

The morning is a blur. Bądarzewska gets to her feet and makes a few phone calls, and also calls Mitsuru to cancel any other plans she’s forgotten. They’re cancelling anything today, Bądarzewska lies to everyone but Mitsuru about why. Mitsuru comes to see the two of you, a flare of old anger bubbles up the to the surface through the numb, but it’s not enough to have you get up and deck her like you want to. Bach and Bądarzewska have forgiven her, but you haven’t.

 

Bądarzewska explains that you get like this. You get very sad like this every once and a while, but this is the worst she’s ever seen you. Mitsuru looks to you and you keep still, expecting her to tell you like to get up and stop putting Bach in a bad position. Today, for some reason, she takes a much longer time looking at you and nods, telling the both of you that she “understands”.

 

She leaves quickly and Bądarzewska hugs you again and you think that’ll be the end of it.

 

Until you get a knock at the door.

  
“Mitsuru?” Bądarzewska asks, tightening the last knot before pressing the cloth closer to your head. The bald cap has been lost since Bądarzewska’s short lived solo act and you’ve been too busy to buy a new one. Bara always has alternatives to things like this, though, and you’ll need to remember to thank her for knotting up one of her scarves just for you. You lean into her hands and wait for _that woman’s_ voice.

 

Instead, the sound you hear in both your dreams and your waking life comes tumbling out through the other side.

 

“No. It’s not. I need to speak with Tchaikovsky please.”

 

Bądarzewska slips off the bed but looks to you. You think about telling her that he can’t come in. You would be here but so would she and you two could talk and hug the rest of the day. She could sit close and whisper in your ear, hot breath tickling some laughter out of you, and you could have just that, just for today. Yet…..you already feel your eyes flickering to the door, wishing his voice would keep going. You want long speeches, monologues the length of novels, and whole audios from just that voice, and you know it’s not what you need but it’s everything you want.

 

Bądarzewska’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes but she walks over to the door and lets him in, telling him she’s leaving to get a drink. You want to tell her you’re sorry or that you’ll make it up to her, but you needed to curse an entire mansion just to tell her you wanted to apologize so you accept your own terrible emotional hang-ups and think about doing something nice for her soon.

 

He’s wearing the blue suit, the one he wears when he’s snuck out to go exploring. You like him in it and you let yourself wonder if he’s put it on for you. You don’t try to really let that thought linger, though. He moves Bara’s little computer chair to sit in front of you, your knees inches away but not really touching. He looks like a parent in a child’s desk and the way he sits is stiff and awkward but you don’t even smile. You think, hard, about the situation at hand: you’re alone, in your room, on your bed, still in your pajamas, with Bach inches away from touching you. You try and will your heart to race like it would have yesterday, but you barely feel a stir.

 

“Tchaikovsky….”

 

He says your name tenderly and _that_ finally gets a reaction from you.

 

You shiver, taking a deep breath, and your eyes flutter closed.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“….Are you alright?”

 

You open your eyes and look up, staring at him silently before nodding.

 

“Just fine, kay? What are you doing here anyway?”

 

Bach shifts in his seat before answering, “Mitsuru told me she was cancelling CLAKLA’s schedule for the day. I wanted to know why.”

 

You wince and keep your head down. You don’t want to answer this, you’re not sure how to even answer this. When the agents and hosts would ask Bara and you why CLAKLA arrived so late, you never knew how to answer this question. Sometimes, it was just you were running late from one event to the other. Other times, it was because one of you forgot something and had to keep everyone waiting as you went to get it. Other _other_ times it was…..this. You were told to push through it by everyone other than Bara, who would sometimes lie and tell them she wasn’t feeling good or that you were hurt and you needed to get checked up. It saved you both an hour or two and you would piece yourself together, reapply your makeup, and force yourself to think that you were nothing more than an adorable idol who loved to wear nothing but frills. You can’t even force a smile today, though, so you’re not sure saying you need an hour is going to do anything.

 

Bach keeps quiet for a very long time and you assume he’s waiting for an answer. You just shake your head and bring your legs up so you can press your knees to your chest.

 

“….are you not feeling well?”

 

You shrug and stop looking at him, looking at his nice leather shoes and wondering if he bought them for the man he is now, rich and able to afford nice clothes and expensive lunches without a second thought, or for the man he used to be, the man who struggled with money from the moment he opened his eyes.

 

He sighs deeply. You continue looking at his shoes. Seconds turn to minutes but nothing breaks the silence for a while.

 

“…..Will you speak with me?”

 

You feel something at that. You feel angry, you feel the last little remnants of it from last night where you stomped around backstage at someone’s comment, at one person’s comment. You feel like crying, you feel like yelling, you feel like you’ll explode, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

 

You sniffle. You let your legs falls back down and you rub at your eyes, still dry but you feel the way the corners of your eyes start stinging. You look up at Bach and you think it’s funny he would say that, to you, of all people. You can’t tell what parts more ironic but it’s all stupid, every bit of this is so _wrong_.

 

“I don’t feel right, kay!”

 

You’re already yelling, getting to your feet and stamping your foot. You gnash your teeth at him but all he does is look at you intently.

 

“So you are feeling unwell–”

 

His voice is turning into the Bach the producer, the CEO of Arhke, and you won’t let him do this. You cut him off with a gesture of your hand, something rude and not appropriate for the girl with the yellow locks of hair and the baby blue eyes you’ve become. You grit your teeth and stamp your foot again, vision going blurry.

 

“I don’t feel right in this body! I want to go back! I want to be that old man again! I want most of my hair to be gone and to be stringy and white! I want my mustache and my beard! Or make me the young man with that thick hair and growing beard! Give it back! I want it back! I WANT TO FEEL RIGHT AGAIN!”

 

You’ve grabbed him somehow; you’ve grabbed him and beat your tiny fists on his shoulders. You’ve yelled in his face, as though he could truly give any of this to you, and made wrinkles of his pressed suit with your white-knuckled grip. You’re getting tears and snot all over his tie and you can’t seem to stop. You keep yelling, incoherently, and tremble when he puts his arms around you. You beat at his chest some more, weakly, and tell him it wasn’t fair. You tell him you wish the girl in the mirror was you. You tell him you wish the man in those photographs were you. You tell him you wish _something_ felt like you. You ask him why, for what seems like a hundred times, and you’re not even sure what you’re asking or what answer you want. Bach just holds you and tells you he understands in that low rumble he calls a voice. It shakes you, it moves you, and it helps you stop yelling.

 

It takes a very long time---you’re sure it’s probably a solid hour---before Bach has helped you back to the bed and has you sitting on the edge. You sniffle and stare at him as he gets on his knees. You sniffle and feel your face heat up but you honestly don’t know what he’s doing. He takes your hand that is dwarfed by his own massive hands and it only makes you miss the long fingers of your old life.

 

“We can help you change….if that’s what you want.”

 

You stare at him. He stares back.

 

You sniffle and give a choked sob.

 

“I don’t even _know_ what I want.”

 

“We can help with that too.”

 

You give another sob and bring your free hand to your eyes, wiping at them. You look back at him till your vision goes blurry and he becomes one blue and silver blur. You blink and your cheeks are wet again but you make out those eyes staring up at you. Their expression is like solid determination mixed with something softer than before, something that has you blinking more tears down your cheeks.

 

You give one small sniff and wipe your wrist under your nose.

 

“I want more pants then, kay?”

 

You smile at him, wiping tears from your eyes. There’s the ghost of a smile on his face and before you can really figure that out, that’s when the door opens again. Bara has a glass of orange juice in one hand and a glass of water with a tiny umbrella and a straw. She does this for you when you want to pretend it’s vodka and it’s silly, dumb, and juvenile and you love her for it every time she tries. She hurries over to you, taking a seat next you and presses close to you. You sniffle and take the water from her so you can bury your face in her shoulder. She playfully admonishes Bach, piecing together a strange and fantastical account of all that occurred without her. Her idea seems to focus on the idea of Bach trying desperately to woo you even though you _are_ an idol. Bach gets up off the floor and settles back into the small chair, looking as though he’s truly being admonished, and you press your smile into her arm. You bring the glass to your lips and pretend there will be a burn or a thick taste when all you taste is crisp, cold water. You imagine the bar you’ll take Bara when you’re twenty, vodka in a nice clear glass; and you’ll wrap your hair out of your face; and you’ll wear pants and a t-shirt.

 

You sip some more and feel _right,_ here, in this moment.  


End file.
